All Those Years
by Kelsid
Summary: Through a strange turn of events, Fantine is taken into the police station a little earlier than in Hugo's story. What develops is a forced comradeship between the girl and a certain inspector as they band together in their hatred of the town's mayor.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: This takes place just after Fantine cut her hair, but before she pulls out her teeth-- essentially, before she becomes a prostitute. Sorry for any confusion._

_CHAPTER 1_

_She took a lover, the first who offered, a man whom she did not love, out of bravado and with rage in her heart. He was a miserable scamp, a sort of mendicant musician, a lazy beggar, who beat her, and who abandoned her as she had taken him, in disgust. - Les Miserables_

Javert always liked it when it rained. It was not that he was particularly enjoyed depressing weather; he just rather liked the sound of his boots hitting the wet cobblestones. The leather-clad soles gently slapping the puddles of rain gave him the warm, pleased feel only a simple joy can provide. _The same exact feeling_, he thought, _you get when you arrest a criminal_. Just the thought of it made Javert straighten up a little more and put more care into his already measured steps.

The only thing that dampened his mood was the lack of wrongdoers wandering about Montreuil-sur-Mer. Don't get him wrong, he absolutely loved his job whether or not there were outlaws wandering about. It just made him feel better to actually be arresting people. It made him feel like he was needed in the city, that he was improving the place he lived. And for the last two weeks, the most he'd found was a little boy playing a game with some of his urchins in the middle of the street when a cart was coming by. The people seemed too well-behaved… or perhaps Javert was just looking in the wrong places.

The only sign of life on the lane he'd just turned onto was a few dim lights glinting from within a small tavern. Well. The disappointment was clear on Javert's face. No one even loitered about the streets. It was a quiet, still night, and although there certainly were times when a policemen prayed for a night like this, tonight was not one of those. Javert trained his hawk-like eye on the tavern. There was uproarious laughter coming from within, and he could vaguely see a man toppling over his chair. Hmm. Well, if the crime wouldn't come to you… you go to the crime. Giving a furtive glance around the area, Javert was suddenly relieved there was no one in sight, and strode purposefully towards the establishment.

The wooden door flew open with a mighty bang, a cold wind barging into the cozy pub. Affluent men peered over their prostitutes' heads, trying to see who had entered the shop at this hour of night and why the hell he was keeping the door open when the chill was coming in. Even the bartender stopped cleaning the glasses. It was if everyone could almost sense the presence of Javert.

And they most certainly could. The moment the door opened, the women shrieked and ran out the back door. The sight was indeed a frightening one; a broad, enormously tall man dressed in a militaristic overcoat; crisp, alert eyes brooding out from under his dark brows. Even the most influential of the men shuddered under the policeman's omnipresent gaze. The entire tavern went silent.

"What?" Javert barked, his deep, harsh voice reverberating off the once intimate walls. "Hasn't a man ever walked into a bar before?"

Everyone nodded, their eyes wide with fear.

"Good." Smoothing down his coat, Javert took a seat at the nearest table which a few patrons were unfortunately seated at. The two men and their sweethearts looked horrified as the police inspector adjusted his already impeccable hat and gave them the most penetrating stare ever inflicted upon them in their lives.

"Good evening, monsieur!" one man drunkenly greeted, holding out a brimming glass of beer.

"Giroud," his friend hissed, poking him in the ribs. "Don't-"

"Good evening, monsieur!" Giroud repeated, looking enthusiastically at the stoic face of the inspector, oblivious to everyone else's despair. "How goes your fine night?"

His friend moaned softly.

"Are you breaking the law?" Javert asked.

"Um…" Giroud looked confused. "Not that I know of…" His companion buried his head in his hands.

"Then you don't need to speak to me."

From the back of the room, another conversation could be heard, and a feminine voice started to spiral out of control while a man yelled back.

"I'm not serving to that—"

"You'll serve to any patron we get!"

"He scares me!"

"He scares everyone! Get out, now!"

Shooting a vicious glare at her employer, the barmaid walked up, looking increasingly self-conscious and uncomfortable as she neared closer to the policeman. Giroud gave her a wink as she neared, but she didn't look. Her gaze seemed fixated on the table in front of the policeman.

"Anything for Monsieur to drink?" she asked, her voice cracking as every single, petty crime she'd ever committed jumped to her mind.

Javert gave her an almost bored look, as if a silly girl like her would ever know what was going on in _his_ mind. "No," he said. "I didn't come here to _drink_."

Giroud let out a loud, uproarious laugh, slapping his hand on the table. Javert jolted as his nightstick clattered off the table. "Then what are you doing here?" he asked, still wiping the tears out of his eyes.

"Utterly and sincerely not enjoying your company."

"Hey!" From the back of the hall, a lumpy fellow with a stained shirt entered hesitantly. He appeared slightly pale, as if he were sincerely regretting even appearing in the first place. "It's fine if you've come in here for a drink, but you can't just terrorize the customers," he demanded, his voice shaking.

Javert stared.

"I mean… um…" He scratched his bald head. "I… don't arrest me?"

A noticeable change went over the policeman's features, and his stony exterior morphed into humbled acceptance.

"I apologize, sir. I… was under the impression there may have been some law-breaking this evening, and I was mistaken. I will leave your establishment if need be."

"Oh." The owner looked confused, especially when Javert took a respectful bow. "Well, if you put it that way…"

The other customers immediately bit back squeals and shook their heads vigorously.

"Wait. I think that means… leave?"

Everyone slumped in their seats, relieved.

Javert swept his hat off his head. "Certainly."

But at that moment, from the side door, a new couple entered. The woman was a blonde, pretty woman, except for the fact that her hair was completely shorn. At the moment, no one noticed. All anyone saw were her tears as her companion yelled angrily at her, shoving the woman through the door.

"Do you know what you did?" he demanded, taking her by the arm, his dirty and ragged clothes making her appear almost respectable by comparison.

"I… I'm sorry, I…" She seemed unable to finish her sentence.

"Answer me, or I'll—"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking…"

"You never think! You don't just tell anyone what happened last night; that was strictly confidential!"

"I didn't know!"

A ringing slap echoed through the room, and the woman's sobs increased. The man pushed his scowling face up to the woman's, and she tried to pull back in disgust, but he fastened his grip on her white arm.

"Don't you ever do that again, or I will personally…"

But at that moment, a large shadow engulfed the man, and he turned slowly to find a humorless, hungry smile on the policeman.

"Good evening, monsieur," said Javert.

The terror written across the man's face could not have been starker.

"For a moment, I was under the impression this city had been taken by the Holy Spirit itself. Good to see someone prove me wrong."

Next thing the man knew, he was against the wall with his hands cuffed securely behind his back. The woman's shrieks escalated.

The inspector gazed on the criminal with a look of a vulture on his prey, his cool demeanor jarring the jolted man. "Now, I'll need to take you at the station," the policeman said calmly, his voice even and low as the woman's coughs wracked her chest. "It won't take too long. What's your name?"

"Roland. Roland... But please, monsieur." Roland kneeled on the ground, his eyes level with Javert's knees. "You do not understand…"

"Well, as I recall, you hit this woman across the face. Am I missing something?" Roland felt himself jerk upwards as the inspector took his collar and hoisted him to his feet.

Javert inclined his head towards the owner of the pub, who appeared completely bewildered. "Thank you very much for your excellent service."

The owner started. "Sir?"

Javert bared his large, white teeth, an animalistic grin spreading across his face. "I got exactly what I wanted."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

"Name?"

"Roland Clemenceau."

"Date of birth?"

"August 12, 1797."

Javert wrote in silence, enjoying the scribbling sound of the pen. He rather liked that too, as well as the wet pavement. Not that he'd tell anyone that, of course.

Roland sat on the chair, letting his chin rest against his chest. It had been a long night. He instinctively looked back at the door, waiting for his girlfriend to enter. He'd just picked her up a few weeks back. Oh why oh why didn't he just leave her before?

"Occupation?"

"What?" Roland whipped his head around, surprised.

Javert set his jaw and turned his gaze downwards in exasperation before looking back up. "I said," he repeated clearly and a bit too loudly, "what do you do for a living?"

Roland could have sworn he muttered, "If anything," under his breath, but he couldn't be sure.

"I'm a street musician," he replied. Javert raised an eyebrow. "Sir."

Instead of the sardonic retort Roland expected, Javert simply frowned as he jotted down the information. The crease inbetween the inspector's black brow grew deeper as finished the line.

"Is that all right with you?" Roland asked boldly, but immediately regretted it when Javert shot him a stony, cold look that seemed to be the very personification of justice itself.

"Yes," he replied curtly. "Now, what is your resid—"

At that moment, the woman who had been in the pub stuck her head through the partially open door, giving a horrible grin. Roland turned away, his face twisted with hatred.

Javert looked up from his papers, his lips thinning when he saw who it was. "Do you want something?"

The woman stared, the terrible smile still plastered on her sunken features.

"I said, do you want something?" he repeated, but the woman didn't even seem to hear. She just stepped closer to her former lover, spite and bitterness mixing with the savage glory on her face.

"Very well, keep inching forward as long as it suits you." Javert adjusted his gaze, settling back on the case. "Residence?"

Roland couldn't tear his eyes away from the encroaching woman. The expression on her face was enough to send him nightmares for years. Such hatred, such sourness, such… disgust.

"My God, are all you people deaf?" Javert cried, making Roland jump yet again. "Tell me where you live!"

"I… I…"

Javert turned his eyes toward the woman. "Is she bothering you?"

Roland was under the impression that to say yes would be somewhat of a blow to his pride. He wasn't sure what the look on his face was portraying, but the corner of the inspector's mouth pulled up in dark amusement.

"Er… no, monsieur," he said quickly, averting the crazed eyes of his lover. "Not at all."

"Good." Javert took up his pen, his brow once again furrowed. "Now, where were we? Name… date of birth… Ah, yes. Residence." He dipped his pen into the ink pot, preparing to settle in for another day's reports, when the woman spoke.

Her voice still held a musical quality, but had been roughened by years of drink and screaming. A real pity, thought Roland. A real, goddam pity.

"Are you going to jail?" she whispered, her dull blue eyes feverishly searching over Roland's face. He shrugged and looked over to Javert, who nodded his head slightly while finishing the statement.

"Good." She seemed to relax, her thin shoulders sinking into the drapes of her dress. The apparel was much too large for her, all the fabric hanging loosely from her near skeletal body. Roland remembered when she had been healthier (never purely _healthy_, not even when he had first glimpsed her coming out of that factory), when the dress had been new. It fit, then.

She crept closer to him, her hands twisting maniacally. "You deserve it, you know," she said softly. He gave a wry grin.

"I do."

"I hated you even since I met you," she continued, ignoring what he'd last said. "You are a disgusting, sick, slob of a man. You have no idea how much I loathed you. You really, truly don't."

Javert's eyebrow rose.

"Fantine—" Roland began, giving a small laugh as he waved a careless hand, but Fantine pushed back it back.

"No," she growled. "You are going to listen to me for _once in your life_!" Her voice began to raise, her words screeching.

"I lost my job, I lost everything, and I hated myself so much, and then I saw you sitting there on the streets, your mandolin slung around your back, I thought, 'There's a man who can bring out the worst in me,' and you know what? You did!" She let out a burst of hysterical laughter, and Roland found himself pressing against the back of his seat as if to escape her. Coughs began to rack her small, frail body, but she continued on her tirade.

"I hate myself almost as much as I hate you. Isn't that marvelous? I love it when you beat me. Because I deserve it. I deserve to be with a nauseating, despicable street-wanderer with no respect and no decency! And now you're going to jail! How wonderfully, wonderfully—"

Finally, the coughs became unbearable, and Fantine leaned over, overcome by the fit. Even Javert looked vaguely concerned, his attention at last diverted from his paperwork.

"Fantine, please, just—"

"Just leave?" She quickly pulled herself back up, her face flushed with illness. "Is that what you were going to say? Because I'm not going to leave, Roland Clemenceau. For every single second I've been with you, I wanted to say this to you. I wanted to see you hurt, have you suffer. And I want to enjoy every minute of it."

There was a strange silence within the station as Fantine's breathing grew more haggard and eventually lapsed back into wracking coughs, her body shaking uncontrollably. Roland stared, a look of hatred growing on his face. Embarrassing him in front of a police officer? If he ever got out of this situation, he knew the first thing he'd be doing…

But his reverie was interrupted when from the corner of his eye, he saw Javert stand, his head close to brushing the ceiling. Then, with wide, purposeful steps, the inspector strode over to Fantine and laid the back of his massive hand on her forehead. The woman stopped in mid-cough, her wide eyes fearfully looking up to the severe man above her.

"Hmph," said Javert, and began to rub his square jaw. Both Fantine and Roland watched in amazement as the inspector sharply inclined his head toward a nearby bench.

"Well?" he asked curtly.

"I… I don't quite…"

"For someone as ill as you are, I find it amazing that you argue so much. Sit _down_."

He swept his arm to the seat, his eyebrows rising expectantly, if exasperatedly. Fantine sat.

"Good." He stuffed his hand back into his pocket as Fantine perched awkwardly on the bench, her hands clasped in nervousness. Javert walked back to his desk, quickly and efficiently, before picking up the pen again as if nothing had happened.

"Residence?"

The detained man just looked at the inspector as if he had never seen another creature like him. On the other side of the room, the woman was sitting as close as she possibly could to the edge of the bench without falling off, her back stiff and straight as she gave curious glances at him. Javert frowned as the two stared as him, the perpetual crease in his forehead folding even deeper. "Well?"

Roland shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the inspector's gaze resting unsettlingly on him. It was clear he wanted an answer.

"It was just… kind, of you, monsieur," Fantine said falteringly, a trace of amazement and shock in her voice.

"Kind?" Javert's lips stretched across his face in something that should have been a smile, and he tilted his head back. At first, neither of the two was sure if he was having a fit or was simply relaxing, but by the time he brought himself back to upright position, it was obvious he had been laughing. Silent, invisible laughter still slightly shook his shoulders, and a dangerous glint filled with black humor danced in his eyes. "I have never been kind. Don't flatter yourself by assuming I started with you."

"But you—"

"To not offer you a seat would have been cruel. And I am not that, either."

"Well then, what are you?" she shot back.

He didn't seem to question her fierceness. "Just," replied Javert with such utmost conviction that she didn't doubt him for a moment. "And this is the longest I've ever taken at writing a report. Congratulations, we've set a record. Residence?"

"I already told you, I live on the street," said Roland, secretly feeling quite content that the inspector's brusqueness hadn't been directly inflicted upon him.

"Finally an answer," muttered Javert, more to himself than to Roland as he quickly and clearly continued the page, diverting his attention from the aggressor. The man in the chair gently tilted his head back, looking at Fantine behind him. She looked just as comfortable as she did when she had first arrived. She'd changed so much. There had always been a sense of bitterness around her, the aura that life hadn't gone well. But watching her address the policeman made him realize that sweet, innocent young flower was gone. _Used to be so sweet, _he mused. _Pity._

She sat, her hands grasping the edge of the bench with such determination that her knuckles had turned white with the effort. A sheen of sweat glazed over her face, and she suddenly realized that her throat was ridiculously dry. She just wanted to go home, go to her apartment and stay in bed, and maybe even write a letter to Cosette…

"If you really don't want to rest, you can remain standing and kill yourself even faster," Javert muttered. Fantine shrunk back to the bench before the door just behind her burst open with a bang.

"Um…" A fresh-faced youth peered around the corner, his mess of brown hair falling into his wide, clear eyes.

"Yes?" said Javert sharply.

"Oh, right… yes, Inspector… Monsieur Wellington wants to… um…" The boy began to fidget uncomfortably, unconsciously averting his gaze from the policeman. After a few moments, Roland realized the boy was either so jittery that he'd forgotten everything he was about to say, or he was completely and utterly paralyzed with fright.

"Just spit it out!" Javert cried loudly, his eyes flashing. The boy shrunk.

"J-j-just wants to see you, sir," he squeaked, and quickly fled, his long legs getting tangled together before he tripped to the ground.

Roland laughed loudly, while Javert shot him a look, although it did not seem quite as threatening as it should have.

"I'll be right back," he said ominously, and the door behind him clicked.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"You called, sir?" Javert stayed respectfully by the doorframe, giving a slight bow to his superior.

The man rubbed his bridge of his nose, letting his free hand wave to the seat in front of him.

"Sit down."

Javert sat. He really wished Wellington had not asked. The chairs were always too small.

"All right." Wellington folded his thin hands together, the fatherly smile so usually lingering around his lips now a stern, set line. It was a departure from his gentle, push-over attitude. Javert rather liked it. "I'm not going to skirt the issue, so here it is, laid out right in front of you." He took a deep breath, as if something extremely momentous was occurring. "You, Javert, are probably the best man on this force at Montreuil-sur-Mer at the moment, and you have been the minute you joined our ranks."

The creases around the inspector's mouth deepened.

"No, no, I take that back." Wellington waved his hand again, an effusive gesture that made the pragmatist in Javert squirm. "No 'probably's, you _are_ the best here, no doubt about it. Absolutely no doubt in my mind… or in anyone else's for that matter…"

Rambling again. Javert let himself lean back a little in his seat to ease the discomfort.

"…always has been one of the most practical-minded… Well, anyway," Wellington continued, chuckling at his own digression, "you're probably wondering why you haven't gotten a promotion yet."

"I beg your pardon?" he asked quietly. A careful observer would have noted that his hand had started to clench onto his overcoat, but Wellington was definitely not in that category.

Wellington rolled his eyes with a smile, as if a charming child had just asked why people couldn't fly, and he had to explain. "And why shouldn't you wonder? Just look at Etienne. Just not quite as much up there—" He tapped a spindly, short finger to his thinning head. "But he's already climbed further up the ranks. Certainly your curiosity must be piqued."

Javert's jaw jutted out. Did this man purposely _want_ him to question his authority? He was testing him. He must be.

"Hello? Javert?"

All right. Not a test.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes." The word hardly let itself out of his mouth.

"It's because you've got no humanity, my good fellow!" declared Wellington, hitting his desk with a startling emphasis. "No humanity at all! Not one shred of it in those bones of yours, Javert!"

There was a dead silence.

The man's face glistened with sweat as he sat back down, raggedly running his handkerchief about his forehead. "I'm so sorry," he muttered. One drip of sweat still lay shakily on his cheek, but Wellington didn't notice as he swabbed again at his head. "Just gets me so overworked, you know… I'm dreadfully sorry."

Javert stayed still.

Cocking his head, Wellington looked over at Javert, and apparently decided the risk was worth it, for he set off on a second rant.

"Look, you are amazing, there's no doubt about that… none at all, but one of the traits I value most highly on my police team is the ability to differentiate the spirit of the law from the letter."

Bloody half-Englishman.

"Do you know what I'm getting at, Javert? You can't go throwing people in jail left and right! You just can't! Our jails are overflowing!"

Javert found his mouth getting awfully dry. "You mean to say," he said slowly, "that you don't want criminals to be punished."

The desperate click-clacking of Wellington's fingers across the desk stopped. "No," he repeated back just as carefully, "I just feel that you should… You should understand their predicament first. There are those that do these things once, out of destitution or confusion, and there are those who were born to do them again and again. You must pick them out."

Before he could stop himself, the inspector felt a flush of heat rise to his cheeks. "Excuse me if I do not understand," he attempted to say coolly, but his voice had dropped dangerously low. He cleared his throat and tried again. "If I do not understand— but I'm not serving the police force to the best of my capabilities because I don't let a street musician abuse his girlfriend who works in a factory.'"

"Something along those lines," said Wellington uneasily. He had never seen his star protégé quite so red. "Well, I mean, no. Not at all. I was referring to the woman. She's sitting in there, dying…"

"I'm not arresting her," struck in Javert suddenly. "It's the man. She slipped in."

"Oh." Well, now probably wasn't a good time to tell him that her landlord had just spoken with him in regards to the poor woman's inability to pay her rent.

"Why? What did she do?"

Dammit.

"Well…" Wellington started hesitatingly, "there was a slight issue with her rent a few days back… the landlord doesn't think she can even pay for it, although she works almost non-stop…"

"What a disappointment."

"And she absolutely refuses to go out onto the streets—"

"I'm sure we could offer her a nice, covered shelter right here."

Javert nearly jumped as Wellington's long hand smacked the desk right in front of him. "No, no, no, no, no!" shouted Wellington, nearly knocking the papers off his desk. "This is exactly what I was telling you NOT to do! Do you not _understand_?"

"I understand that you are telling me to purposely and knowingly break the law--"

"All right, just… just _listen_." Wellington stuck his face as close to Javert's as he could. The man didn't budge an inch. "I am sending you back to the quarries of Toulon."

The inspector's face blanched.

"_If_ you do not help this woman over here pay her rent."

If Javert could have exploded silently, quietly and without a spectacular show of blood and guts, his face at this very moment is exactly what it would have looked like.

"I… I… I can't… this… No. I am not going to pay for this woman out of my own pocket—"

"Then give her your own place."

Compared to the previous suggestion of paying the woman's rent, this revelation was the diagnosis of cancer to a cold.

"Yes, I think I like that better anyhow. More personal. Javert, this is a woman who has worked and worked but still can't even fight for her life. I need you to understand that."

"I understand it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to invite a twenty-some year old woman to live with me!"

"Dear God." Wellington rubbed the bridge of his nose. "All right. Take her in until she dies. Make her last days comfortable. That's all I'm asking. It will only take a month— not even. Please. No one will know. And if you do, I think I can see to it that you get the spot in Paris instead of Etienne. I… I demand you to."

The look on Javert's face was startling in its complete and utter dullness. The expression did not change as he uttered a crisp, "Yessir," and promptly stood up, gave a low bow, and left.

Fantine quietly rocked her feet back and forth, back and forth when the door burst open, slamming into the wall behind it, and Javert stepped out, looking more tightly-wound than he had appeared before. Was that possible? Suddenly she realized he was gesturing to her.

"You're coming with me," he said, looking halfway across the room.

"What…?"

"Just..." He sighed, as if he could hardly even deign to believe he was saying this-- "come with me."


End file.
